Road to New Roissy
by Deklava
Summary: Hoping to teach Mycroft to relinquish control, Lestrade takes him to New Roissy, the meeting place for a secret D/s society. It's also a place where boundaries become meaningless and the impossible doesn't exist. Rated M for Holmescest and D/s elements.
1. Chapter 1

_The greatness of a man's power is the measure of his surrender._ -**William Booth**

Mycroft Holmes couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so apprehensive and excited at the same time.

The sleek black car hurtled through the December night, the interior so silent that the sound of rain lashing against the windows and drumming on the roof was amplified. When thunder exploded overhead, Mycroft actually jumped and clutched his umbrella handle until his knuckles whitened.

A strong hand touched him just above the knee, its fingers moving in soothing circles. "Relax," Gregory Lestrade murmured.

"I'm trying to. It's difficult."

"You're not sure what to expect. That's all."

Mycroft nodded and leaned back against the rich leather seat. It was true- he didn't know for certain what awaited him, and he'd refrained from finding out purely by choice. Because he loved and trusted the man whose leather-clad leg now pressed against his own.

"I think I'm bringing you to New Roissy just in time." Gregory slid an arm around his shoulders and drew him close. "You're as jumpy as hell."

"Talk to me," Mycroft said, closing his eyes. "Tell me more about this place."

His lover chuckled. "So now you want to know, eh?"

"Just enough to give me some hope."

_Hope that I can finally learn how to surrender control, before the migraines get worse, my blood pressure increases, and Sherlock-induced stress brings on a heart attack._

He reached for Gregory's left hand and caressed the bronze ring adorning the pinky finger. When he'd first seen it, Mycroft thought the insignia was a coiled serpent. Now he knew it was a bullwhip intersected with a riding crop.

Days into their relationship, he'd deduced that the handsome DI belonged to a secret society. Gregory had volunteered no information about it, and Mycroft chose not to ask. The ring didn't represent any subversive groups he was aware of, and because his razor intellect could always deduce what Lestrade had eaten for lunch and what route he'd taken home, he allowed his lover the odd secret like this one. Little did he suspect that the ring- or to be precise, what it represented- would one day embody his salvation.

"It's a place where everyone will know you're mine, and how much I love you. You'll be told what to do and when. You'll learn to finally let go."

Mycroft laughed shakily. "Would you believe that I can't even imagine myself not being in control at all times?"

"Really? Because that's the situation now, love. Look around you."

Mycroft opened his eyes and took everything in. The car and its unfamiliar driver. The lonely country road, where government surveillance cameras were few and far between.

The handcuffs that secured his wrists.

At that moment the car turned left, into a hedge-lined laneway. Gravel crunched under the tires, and lights beckoned faintly at the end.

"We're here," Gregory said.


	2. Chapter 2

Staring into the distance, Mycroft detected a three-storied stone house with a full-length porch. Each window had deep red curtains, beyond which lights glowed warmly.

"I'm going to blindfold you now," Gregory said, reaching into his pocket. "Please kneel."

Mycroft moved off the seat and knelt on the floor. He gazed up at Gregory, who caressed his cheek.

"One last time before the car stops. You're sure you want to do this?"

"Yes. If you think this will help me, then yes. I trust you implicitly."

"You understand that you may be touched, and sometimes rather intimately? And you will not be disrespectful. If something makes you uneasy, you use the signal we agreed on."

"Yes."

"Show me the signal again, please."

Mycroft raised his cuffed hands and crossed the first and second fingers on the right one.

"Good." Gregory smiled before tying a length of black silk around his head. "I love you."

"I love you too."

Mycroft sat back on his heels and dropped his hands into his lap again. Deprived of sight, his other senses magnified. Polished leather, car shampoo, and Burberry cologne flooded his nostrils, and the soft creak of leather as Gregory shifted on the seat made him shiver. He felt vulnerable but said nothing. He'd known this wasn't going to be easy.

Lestrade must have figured it out, because warm hands clasped his shoulders. Mycroft bowed his head until his brow touched the other man's knees, and let the dual contact soothe him.

He was also turned on, although he kept it hidden. He and Gregory had an active and adventurous sex life, but this- handcuffs, blindfolds, gentle dominance and total submission- was different. They'd always played as equals between the sheets, even when Lestrade was spanking him or pinning his wrists while fucking him into the mattress. That had all been rough stimulation, nothing more. Here, in this car, his will was being taken gently away from him. Was that a kink he didn't know he had? How else could he explain the way the blood roared in his ears and his skin flushed as he knelt on that floor?

The car stopped. Mycroft sat up straight and listened carefully as the driver exited the vehicle and opened the rear passenger door. Wet night air whooshed in, along with the sound of three people approaching.

A man spoke. Mycroft identified his accent as Swiss German. "Good to see you again, Greg."

"Likewise, Hans. How did your son's knee surgery go?"

"Very well, thank you for asking." A pause. "So this is Mycroft?"

Mycroft bristled. He almost snapped, "It's Mr. Holmes to you." Gregory squeezed his shoulder and he remained silent.

"Yes. As you can imagine, this is a bit of a challenge for him."

"It always is the first time." Hans came closer. "Hello, Mycroft."

He raised his chin and turned his face in the other man's direction. "Hello," he responded, proud of how dignified he sounded despite being blindfolded and handcuffed.

Hans chuckled. "Greg, please- come in. We'll talk more in the study. Gerard and Paulo will get him settled. Your rooms are ready."

Mycroft blinked in surprise. Rooms? So they weren't going to be sleeping together?

"Certainly." Lestrade leaned forward. "Myc, you won't be seeing me for the rest of the night. You know what I expect from you."

Mycroft nodded. He started to lick his dry lips, but Gregory cupped his face and kissed him. "I'll be in the same house, remember, and thinking of you constantly. Make me- and yourself- proud."

"I will."

Then Lestrade was gone and two sets of strong but careful hands were assisting him out of the car. One of them pried the umbrella from his grasp and said politely, "This will be returned to you when you leave."

Mycroft heard the snick and whoosh of another umbrella opening –his own brolly made no such noise, being a sword in disguise- and suddenly he was insulated against the downpour. His escorts led him down a gravel pathway and up three stone steps. A door creaked open, and they all stepped into the house.

Mycroft remained still while the two men put the umbrellas away and removed their wet coats. He could hear voices in an adjoining room, but had no time to focus on them before he was propelled down a series of corridors and into a room with a tiled floor. His nostrils flared: he could smell soap, dried flowers, freshly laundered fabric- a bathroom?

The hands fell away from his arms. Someone unlocked and took off his handcuffs. He massaged his wrists automatically, only to freeze when one of the men said, "Your clothes will be removed now. Please stay in place."


	3. Chapter 3

The two men unbuttoned his suit jacket and waistcoat and slid both expensive garments off before tackling his silk shirt and fine wool trousers with the same impersonal efficiency. Gregory had once joked that undressing Mycroft was akin to a Victorian seduction. There were so many layers of clothing to remove, along with their fastenings.

The attendants worked speedily, leaving him naked in seconds. Hands propelled him forward, until his toes touched porcelain. A bathtub.

"One moment, please."

One of them stepped away. He heard faucets creak and water gush. Mycroft was grateful: he'd sweated during the car ride. But that relief turned into shock when the other man fastened what felt like a leather collar around his neck.

If anyone but Gregory had brought him here, Mycroft would have perceived a threat. He'd have ripped off the blindfold, kicked in the assailant's direction, and followed up with disabling blows. This bathroom would smell of blood instead of flowers, and moans of pain would drown out the piano music tinkling upstairs.

"What is this?" he asked, slowly. Dangerously.

"Mr. Lestrade's wishes."

So Gregory had arranged this. It was all fine. He inhaled deeply and relaxed, allowing the man to buckle leather cuffs to his wrists. Then both his hands were raised and metal hooks snapped. Steel rings in the cuffs were now attached to a larger one in the collar, keeping his arms up and semi-immobile. The bindings weren't uncomfortable, but they did arouse long-buried memories from his days as a MI6 field agent.

_Kabul, 2001. Lying on a dusty shed floor during a break in interrogation. Ropes around his neck and wrists that either choked him or tore his muscles, depending on his position…._

No. This was not the same. Unlike Kabul, he could stop this if he wanted. He shifted in the leather bindings, exploring for the first time immobility without fear of pain or death.

"You're not to do anything for yourself, even wash," the man running the bath explained. "The restraints help you remember that."

The faucets creaked again, and the water stopped. Mycroft felt a blanket of sandalwood-scented humidity waft up and caress his face.

Not do anything for himself? Impossible! He was used to running his own affairs AND those of the country. He bit his lip to refrain from protesting. His escorts noticed, for one said, "Mr. Lestrade thought you might need this, and it seems like he's right."

He would have asked what 'this' was, but his jaw was lowered and a leather bit pressed into his mouth. Mycroft let out a surprised yelp and recoiled as the gag was buckled in place.

_Tangiers, 1999. Buried alive by White Cell terrorists while U.S. forces swept the surface, looking for him, the sole survivor of the mass slaughter… Leather in his mouth, absorbing the moisture he hadn't yet sweated away…._

"Mr. Lestrade advised what your safety signal was, and it will be respected if used. But you really should trust your partner."

Mycroft's stomach knotted with apprehension. Why was it so damn difficult to let go?

And why was he growing hard? Could he possibly want this as much as Gregory did?

A door opened. Mycroft turned his head toward the noise, listening for footsteps. He heard none, which was why he jumped when a cool hand gently grasped the back of his neck.

That hand- he knew it from somewhere. His nostrils widened as he strained to detect cologne, hand lotion, anything that might pinpoint the new arrival's identity.

"I'll take over from here, gentlemen," a woman said.


	4. Chapter 4

The hand stayed in place until departing footsteps signaled that the two of them were now alone. Then she said in dulcet tones, "Please step into the water."

Her voice was unfamiliar, but that touch- he knew he'd felt it before. Not under adverse circumstances, or he'd remember. Intrigued and anticipating the moment when the blindfold would come off, Mycroft placed one foot into the warm depths. When he wobbled a bit, firm and familiar hands steadied him.

"You're all right," she said. "My assistant has got you. Sit down."

Assistant? Someone else was in the room? When had they come in- or had they been present the entire time, silently watching? Mycroft hesitated, disoriented by the abrupt switch in perception. It wasn't the woman he had faintly recognized: it was an unknown party who had yet to speak.

Two more hands clasped his face. They were soft and feminine. Hers, for sure. "You're all right," she repeated.

He exhaled slowly and nodded. Of course he was all right- would Gregory have brought him here if there was a risk of otherwise? So what if he had met one of these attendants before? In his line of work, he encountered dozens of people on a daily basis. Why did he have to over-analyze?

_Because doing so kept me alive in the field for fifteen years. But I'm not at war with anyone here, except possibly myself. Must remember that._

_But who is…_

_Stop. You're safe. Trust Gregory._

As Mycroft sank into the steaming water, all tension fled, leaving him languid and boneless everywhere except his groin. He was now fully erect, but couldn't summon the energy to be embarrassed. He sat quietly while two sets of hands –one hauntingly familiar- scrubbed him thoroughly, careful not to wet the collar or cuffs. Then they made him kneel and one of them ran a cloth perfunctorily about his lower belly and genitals. He bit down on the leather and shifted his hips, craving more intimate stimulation, but they just assisted him out of the tub and toweled him off.

"You must be thirsty after a hot bath," the woman said.

The gag was removed and the rim of a drinking glass pressed against his lips. Mycroft drank greedily. The water was cool and delicious, and soothed his dry mouth. When the glass was taken away, he said, "I know your assistant from somewhere."

"Perhaps. But you don't know me. My name is Irene."

He tried to speak, but Irene pushed the leather bit past his lips. As she buckled the gag in place, she added, "I spoke to Mr. Lestrade before coming downstairs. He sends his love."

Those words instantly derailed Mycroft's curiousity about her helper's identity. Gregory was sending his love. Heart swelling, he imagined Lestrade lounging in an ornate study or library upstairs, sipping his trademark scotch and soda and cutting a commanding figure in his black turtleneck jumper and leather trousers. I love him so much. What did I have before I met him? Shadow romances. One-night stands. Before Gregory, there was nothing.

Tears pricked his eyes. He suddenly wanted Gregory to hold him right now. What was happening to his normal stoicism? One minute he was rebellious, the next aroused and submissive, and now he felt as vulnerable and anxious as a lost child. Where was that imposing persona that could scare terrorists and enemy agents into pissing themselves and giving up their secrets?

Irene apparently read his mind.

"It's just your defenses crumbling. You're slowly letting go. That's good."

Her fingernails trailed down his chest, pausing to grasp his left nipple and twist it upward. Mycroft shuddered in surprise and bliss; how had she pinpointed one of his accelerated erogenous zones so quickly? He groaned and tried to touch her, but the cuffs frustrated his effort. Chuckling, she drew him close and bit gently down on that section of his neck that always made him a captive.

Mycroft moaned and his knees shook. His cock began leaking copiously. He tried to touch it, but the wrist cuffs refused to yield.

"We've never met, but I know you," she purred into his ear. "Bathing someone is a fast track to mapping their body's erogenous zones. And in my line of work, I make it my business to know men's bodies." To prove her point, she slid her hand under his balls and danced her fingertips across that sensitive spot above his entrance. "You like that, don't you? No need to confirm. I know."

His knees actually gave out then and he collapsed against her. Silky hair, soft skin, and Givenchy perfume flooded his senses. A ribbed leather corset shifted against his chest as Irene caught him and lowered him to his knees.

"Perfect," she murmured. "I was going to have you kneel anyway. You're quite teachable, you know. Almost as much as your-." She stopped. "Never mind, you don't really need to know about that. Position him."

Her assistant took Mycroft by the shoulders and lowered him until his forehead touched the thick bath mat and his arse hovered in the air. The pose was humiliating, but he didn't care. This was what Gregory wanted, and judging from his near-painful erection, he wanted it too.

"Mr. Lestrade also sends something else," Irene continued. "Please remain still."

Mycroft caught his breath and froze. He heard the rustle of a plastic bag and snapping of latex gloves, followed by the click of a tube opening. Then fingers, soft and slick, stroked against his entrance until he relaxed enough to let them inside. He squeezed his eyes shut behind the blindfold, riding a wave of vulnerability and arousal. The intruding digits coated his inner walls thoroughly with lube, whereupon they withdrew, and something hard and slick pushed against his still-tight entrance.


	5. Chapter 5

Mycroft squirmed as the object (dildo, wrong shape for a butt plug) was slowly and carefully pressed into his body. When it grazed his prostate, he gave a full-body shudder and whimpered in pleasure. _It feels so fucking good, so good…._

Then hips nudged against his upturned buttocks and he momentarily stilled in surprise. Wriggling backwards, he detected leather fastenings across her waist and thighs. A strap-on!

Firm, leather-covered breasts flattened against his damp back and strong arms encircled his middle. "Mycroft Holmes," she sighed into his shoulder before biting it. "Said to be the most brilliant man in England. Smarter than his brother Sherlock. I know all about you. Have you deduced yet that I'm going to fuck your arse until you wonder where I've been all your life?"

Mycroft wasn't shocked that she knew his name. But Sherlock's? Was she a friend of his younger brother's or, worse, an enemy? Then something occurred to him: Gregory's given her a script. Told her what to say. Of course.

"You think someone's written me a speech, don't you?"

_What the hell?_

"I read you like a newspaper, my boy. As to how I know your brother: you'll soon find out. But right now I'm going to ride you like the whore you are. Imagine that- the great Mycroft Holmes, stuffed with cheap rubber cock and loving it- while his partner watches."

Mycroft's chin lifted sharply, making her laugh.

"Oh, yes, Mr. Lestrade is viewing all this on camera as we speak. Let's give him a show, shall we?"

She drew back before slamming several inches of hard silicone into his tight passage. He grunted loudly and nearly fell onto his stomach. After taking a second to reorient himself, he spread his legs and arched his back further so that the next thrust hit his prostate.

"I know where the sweet spot is," Irene chided. "But you couldn't wait, could you? Fucking slut!"

She bit him again, this time on the neck. Mycroft sighed and surrendered to the pleasure-pain. He'd worry about the source of her information later. Irene was clearly a society member, and when this was over, Gregory could give him enough information for a background check. Right now Mycroft wanted Lestrade to see how much he was enjoying himself.

When Irene thrust into him a third time he pushed back and rotated his hips. He heard her gasp, and smiled around the gag. Felt good against your clit, did it? Without giving her a chance to collect herself, Mycroft ground against her more intensely. He felt her thighs tremble and her nails dig into his chest.

"Oh, you clever boy," she choked. "Are you trying to top me from the bottom?"

Irene growled and pounded into his slick hole repeatedly, pausing every now and then to let him rub the dildo base against her groin. He imagined what he must look like to Gregory right now: collared and cuffed, face pushed into a wet bath mat and a fit, aggressive woman plunging deep into his arse with a strap-on.

Arousal made him daring. When Irene drew back for another thrust, he reared up, throwing her off. Hearing her fall onto her back, he swiveled around on his knees, straddled her slim hips, and lowered himself onto the bobbing dildo, taking care not to apply his full weight against her much smaller body. One of her hands grasped his waist as he bounced, while the other closed around his straining cock.

"Oh, you _are_ creative," she gasped. "Too bad you're not mine…. But my helper is learning a lot right now."

_So am I, Miss Irene._

Mycroft rode her hard, grinding against her clit, while she jerked him off and yelled obscenities.

"I'm almost there, you slut. Who ever thought the great Mycroft Holmes could be stuffed with so much cock and still please a woman?"

When orgasm hit her, she screeched and rubbed her slick thumb over his cockhead with just the right amount of pressure. At the same time, her assistant knelt behind him and again applied a familiar touch, this time to his nipples. A few skilful pinches and twists and Mycroft came too, moaning as he imagined what Gregory must be seeing: thick bursts of ejaculate splashing heavily onto Irene's leather covered breasts and stomach. Maybe he got some on her face too- he'd have to ask if he could see the tape afterward.

Once again she intercepted his thoughts.

"Mr. Lestrade will probably let you watch the tape in the morning. But right now, let's ask your brother what he thinks of your performance."


	6. Chapter 6

Mycroft was so stunned that Irene pushed him off easily. He didn't even flinch when she tugged his blindfold away.

At any other time, he would have paused to admire the bathroom's unique and sensual decor. Crimson tiles covered the heated floor, the shower curtain was plush and red, and black wallpaper made the gilded mirror frame and brass light fixtures gleam more brightly. Even the sink was scarlet marble streaked with onyx. The white antique bathtub and toilet were the sole exceptions to the hot-blooded color scheme.

Right now, however, all his attention was on his brother.

Sherlock knelt to Mycroft's left, palms resting on his bony knees and watching him with mingled fascination and concern. He was also gagged, but with a red scarf that contrasted sharply with his white skin. He wore a gray silk shirt similar in style to the purple one that made a lot of people go weak in the knees, and black slacks. Unlike Mycroft, he wasn't collared or cuffed, but his posture indicated complete submission to the woman who watched them with obvious delight.

"Technically he's not a sub," Irene said. "He's here to learn self-control and responsibility. Isn't that right, Sherlock?"

Sherlock nodded and lowered his eyes. The visual contact broken, Mycroft turned to the woman who'd engaged him so skillfully.

Irene was short and slender but, like Sherlock, she thrummed with a formidable energy that made physical bulk redundant. Long, dark hair complemented her milky complexion, and a black leather bustier and trousers clung to her petite yet curvy figure like a second skin. She wasn't classically beautiful: her chin was narrow and her nose a trifle long, but her coy sexuality and unabashed confidence made her more attractive (to Mycroft, anyway) than any manufactured beauty.

"Well, this has been fun indeed, and I know Mr. Lestrade is looking forward to tomorrow morning." Irene sat up, unbuckled the strap-on's harness, and tossed the entire contraption aside. Mycroft stared at the drying semen in her hair and all over her throat and bustier. She followed his gaze and tutted.

"Look at the mess you made- and this is a Gauthier original too. Sherlock, if you would be so kind?"

Sherlock stood, went to the sink, and wet a deep red facecloth. Then he knelt beside Irene and slowly, reverently, wiped away his brother's release.

Mycroft's eyes itched; he'd been staring without blinking. He'd never seen his headstrong younger sibling apply such care during a task. Mummy always used to say that if anyone could burn water, it was Sherlock. Yet here he was, practically worshipping Irene with his gentle touch.

_He __touched __me __too, __and __not __to __shove __or __punch __me_. Mycroft's nipples throbbed at the memory. No wonder he hadn't immediately recognized his own brother's hands; they hadn't touched each other kindly since their childhood. He was also naked in Sherlock's presence for the first time since they grew too old for the nannies to bathe them together. He should feel anxious and exposed. So why didn't he?

Is this what New Roissy was? A place where old boundaries, hostilities, and fears dissolved?

Irene watched him closely. "It's been awhile, hasn't it, since you had any non-hostile physical contact. No, don't answer. It wasn't a question." She sucked her blood-red lower lip between her teeth. "Hmmm. Gives me an idea."

She looked up at the ceiling. Mycroft followed her line of vision and saw a camera secured to the overhead light. After flashing a signal at it, Irene stood and regarded both brothers with her hands on her hips. "Mycroft, you're sweaty from our little romp. Sherlock, clean him up."

As Sherlock crawled over to him, Mycroft felt like saying, "You're more appealing when you aren't so high and mighty." Then it hit him: they were both gagged for a reason. Deprived of the ability to goad each other with diet jokes or scolding, their interactions were neutral, if not pleasant. If Gregory was behind this, he was a damned genius.

Mycroft tried to hold still as Sherlock gently cleaned him with a gloriously warm cloth, but he couldn't stop shivering, and he became hard again. Irene watched silently until Sherlock was done, then sighed dramatically.

"Not bad, but not perfect either. And you know what that means, Sherlock."

He tensed; obviously he did. Irene bent toward Mycroft and unfastened the snaps that secured his cuffs to his collar. She tossed a towel across the lowered toilet seat and ordered him to sit on it. He was equal parts confused and curious as he obeyed, but Irene's next words caused his heart rate to spike.

"Sherlock- trousers down and over his lap. Now."


	7. Chapter 7

**Warning: ** Holmescest on the horizon, as well as spanking and other naughty things.

Sherlock stood, unbuckled his belt with quivering fingers, and lowered his trousers and boxers. Keeping his eyes on the floor and blushing despite his stoic expression, he started to lean forward, but Mycroft grabbed his wrists and pulled him down across his lap.

_Incredible! That came to me a little too naturally._

He could feel his brother's erection pressing against his thigh, and marveled. How on earth had Sherlock ever agreed to this? Was he promised a new skull? His own mortuary?

_I'm NOT going to over-analyze this. Sherlock's had this coming for a long time- even John Watson would agree. And Gregory? Watching this sulky meddler's arse turn pink must be on this year's Christmas list!_

_Time for an early present._

"Give him at least ten," Irene ordered. She perched on the edge of the tub to watch. "But you may give him more if he needs it."

Mycroft ran his palm slowly over those pale globes, feeling the faint tremors that Sherlock was trying to control. Just before raising his hand, he wondered which of them was undergoing the bigger mind-fuck right now.

Mycroft brought his hand down hard. Sherlock made a small, muffled noise and shuddered, but did not try to break away. The younger man braced his palms against the floor tiles and grunted as Mycroft administered ten blows that turned his buttocks from pink to a furious red. When he paused, Mycroft felt Sherlock's erection leaking fluid over his skin and, just to be perverse, jostled his thigh. Sherlock's hips bucked and a deep moan sounded behind his clenched teeth.

Irene approached, knelt in front of Sherlock, and lowered the scarf from his mouth. "What do you say?"

"I'm sorry," the younger man gasped.

"For what?"

Sherlock's pink tongue moistened his dry lips. "Lots of things."

Mycroft stilled. _Is it possible? He understands that his life has been one long series of defiances and disasters?_

"Very good answer." She patted his flushed cheek. With her other hand, she reached between his legs and cupped his balls, massaging them gently. As he arched into the touch, he blurted, "I'm sorry, Mycroft!"

Irene quickly undid Mycroft's gag. He spat it out and caressed Sherlock's back, trying to contain his emotion. _He's never apologized to me for anything before!_

"I forgive you, Sherlock. And because I love you, I'm going to give you more. You know you need it."

"Yes."

He raised his hand again, but before he could slam it down, footsteps approached a closed door that marked one of two entrances into the bathroom. As they drew near, heavy breathing and muttered curses became audible. Then Gregory Lestrade, his leather trousers bulging at the crotch, burst in. His pupils were dilated with obvious lust and he clutched a riding crop in his gloved fist.

"Greg-" Mycroft began, overjoyed. Lestrade silenced any further exclamation by striding over, grabbing his hair, and claiming his mouth in a bruising kiss that sent his own erection stabbing into Sherlock's belly.

"I know I said I'd see you in the morning, Myc, but the two of you- _three_ of you- are so fucking hot. I can't take just watching any more."

Lestrade stared down at Sherlock, who was eyeing him with apprehension and lust. "What's this, eh? You getting off on an arse-beating?" Without waiting for an answer, he grabbed Sherlock's shoulders, pulled him up and around so that he was sitting on Mycroft's lap instead of lying across it, and wrapped his fingers around the younger man's now-exposed cock. He looked quickly at Mycroft, silently asking permission. The elder Holmes nodded, too excited to speak.

Lestrade rubbed his thumb gently over the swollen head before starting to stroke in earnest. With his other hand, he ran the tip of the crop up and down Sherlock's white thighs. While Mycroft held him tightly, Sherlock began squirming on his lap and moaning wordlessly. The closer he got to release, the more frantic and mindless he became. He twisted at the waist, threw his arms around Mycroft's shoulders, and began biting his neck.

Then, suddenly and cruelly, Lestrade stopped.

"No, I don't think so. You're here to learn self control, not randomly get off." He pulled a cock ring out of his pocket and snapped it at the base of Sherlock's erection. The younger man pulled his lips from Mycroft's sweaty skin and wailed in frustration.

Irene laughed and slapped her leather-clad thigh. "God, Greg, the look on his face is priceless."

"That face will have lots of interesting looks before this is over. Thanks for warming my boys up for me. I'll take over from here."


	8. Chapter 8

Gregory's room at New Roissy overlooked the back gardens. Oil paintings adorned the exposed brick walls and a fire burned in the massive hearth, chasing away the chill from the stone floors and frosted window panes. At the center of it all was a king-sized four-poster bed, raised on a mini-platform like a throne on a dais.

Lestrade led Mycroft over to the bed and sat him on the mattress edge. "You were amazing downstairs, Myc," he murmured as he touched the collar and cuffs. "You feel comfortable wearing these?"

Mycroft fingered one of the metal cuff rings. "I feel loved, actually, and safe."

"Because you are." Gregory kissed him before picking a black velvet robe up off the duvet and draping it across Mycroft's bare shoulders. "Now sit here and don't move while I enlighten your brother a little more."

Sherlock stood in the doorway, hands clasped and eyes down. When Gregory approached, his boots treading ominously on the stone floor, Mycroft saw his brother tremble a little but remain in place.

"Well," Lestrade drawled, tapping the riding crop against his open palm. "I understand you want to be a Dom. Like me."

"Yes, Sir."

"You think you're as good as me?" He thrust his face into Sherlock's.

"I… I think it's attainable."

"Do you, now. We'll see. As you've discovered by now, a primary rule is that you shouldn't do to anyone else what you couldn't take yourself. Some may disagree, but I don't give a fuck about their opinions."

Sherlock looked up, startled. "But surely statistics-"

"SHUT UP!"

Mycroft jumped: he'd never heard his lover yell like that before. Sherlock's jaw dropped, and he gasped when Lestrade's gloved hand seized his throat.

"Shut up, you mouthy bastard. Did I ask you about bloody statistics?" He released Sherlock's neck and shoved him toward the bed. "Strip. Fold your clothes on that chair and then get up on the bed. Myc, please stay where you are."

Sherlock's erection, trapped by the cock ring, looked painful and oozed pre-ejaculate. When his pale, lean form climbed onto the mattress and positioned itself facedown, Gregory ordered, "Arms out."

Sherlock complied. Gregory took a length of nylon rope out of the bedside drawer and secured the younger man's narrow wrists to the headboard. The task completed, the DI dealt Sherlock's already-red arse another solid slap.

"This is going to hurt you more than it will hurt me, thank God. Get ready."

Lestrade raised the crop. Mycroft could see his brother tense up. But instead of bringing the instrument down onto its quivering target, Gregory smirked, tossed it aside, and climbed onto the bed, between the spread legs. When he bent down and ran his tongue all over Sherlock's buttocks, the bound man jumped in surprise.

"What? Oooh."

Lestrade dug his fingers into the bruised muscles and parted the cheeks. After winking at Mycroft, who was spellbound at the sight of his lover reducing his arrogant sibling to moans, Gregory shoved his tongue deep into Sherlock's hole.

"Oh, Christ, Lestrade! Please!"

Sherlock raised his hips off the bed and began rutting against the duvet. Lestrade applied a few more long, torturous licks before sitting up on his knees and smacking that writhing arse again. "You think I'm fucking doing all this work just to get you off? " He picked up the crop again and declared, "Maybe this will put you in a more repentant frame of mind."

Mycroft could hardly breathe. Like Sherlock, he was so hard that it actually hurt. Gregory had fucked other people in his presence before; variety was the spice of both their lives, and no birthday or celebration was ever complete without a threesome at the Diogenes Club or another discreet establishment. Seeing Lestrade with _Sherlock_, though, was so surreal, so wrong somehow that the blood roared in Mycroft's ears and every nerve tingled in excitement. He was sure that if the fire were any closer, he'd combust.

Lestrade brought the crop down on Sherlock's arse with a sharp crack. Sherlock cried out and buried his face in the pillow, fingers gripping the rope that bound him in place. Without pause or mercy, ten more blows landed on those upturned buttocks. The last one was particularly harsh and caused the younger Holmes to kick up involuntarily and knock the instrument out of Gregory's hand.

"That's earned you another six, Sherlock." The DI shook his head and winked at Mycroft, whose fingers were wandering across his thigh, toward his own cock. When Gregory mouthed the words "No-wait" he stopped and licked his dry lips.

Sherlock's eyes brimmed with moisture as Gregory retrieved the crop and administered the final blows. When it was over he yielded to tears, but Mycroft also saw bliss slacken his features. He winced when Lestrade caressed his abused flesh, but the dreamy expression remained firmly in place.

"You took that very well, Sherlock." Gregory's hand traveled up the young man's spine to his head, where he ruffled the dark curls. Sherlock leaned into the now-gentle touch, purring like a cat. "I think you deserve a reward."

"Thank you, Sir."

Lestrade untied his wrists and guided him into a kneeling position. "Help me, Myc?"

Mycroft crawled eagerly across the bed. He positioned himself behind Sherlock, coaxing his younger brother into leaning against him. "All right?" he murmured into the wild mop of curls under his chin.

"Mmmmm."

Mycroft wrapped his strong arms around Sherlock's smaller frame and held him close. His erection nudged the younger man's lower back, and it was all he could do not to rut against it. He'd never been attracted to Sherlock sexually – still wasn't, really- but the warm flesh against his throbbing cock felt good.

Lestrade ran his gloved palm over Sherlock's flat stomach in ever-widening circles before grasping his erection and stroking it firmly from root to tip. Sherlock's hips thrust up and he moaned.

"Please, Lestrade."

While Mycroft held him tight, Gregory removed the cock ring and began stroking hard and fast. Sherlock leaked so copiously that lube was unnecessary. He twisted and wailed in his brother's grasp, palms planted on Mycroft's thighs and head against his shoulder. Inspired, Mycroft dug his teeth into Sherlock's neck, biting hard enough to bruise the pale skin.

"Faster, faster, please, I'm almost there…. OHHHHH!"

Hot semen practically exploded from his formerly-restrained erection. Gregory pulled his hand away and twisted Sherlock's nipples while the younger Holmes bucked and cried through the aftershocks. Then Sherlock went completely limp, chin dropping to his chest and whimpering softly.

Mycroft rocked him and whispered, "You did marvelously, Sherlock." He flinched as he remembered the last time he'd held his wild sibling so close: Sherlock had passed out from a cocaine overdose and Mycroft was trying to keep his airways clear and call 999 at the same time.

Lestrade gave the brothers a few extra minutes to revel in the loving contact. Then he tapped Sherlock's cheek and said, "Wake up. I need you to do something for me."

"Hmmm… all right. What?"

"You'll see in a moment… Myc, let him go and lie on the bed. On your front."

When Sherlock sat up straight and slid off his lap, Mycroft crawled toward the head of the bed. When he was face-down, one cheek nestled in the pillow and arms extended in case his lover wanted to restrain him, Gregory fondled his smooth arse cheeks with a roughness that betrayed his arousal.

"You looked so damned sexy when Irene was fucking you… and when you turned the tables on her… Christ." Lestrade's breathing was ragged. "I swear to God, every minute I watch you reminds me of why I fell in love with you in the first place."

"I love you too. Now tie me up and use me hard."

Silence. Then: "Are you sure?"

"Absolutely."

"Oh God, oh God. Fuck." Lestrade grabbed the nylon strands that remained fastened to the headboard and secured his lover's wrists. Then he pounced onto the bed and began kissing and biting Mycroft's shoulders and upper back. One hand slid under Mycroft's belly and started rhythmically pumping his hard length. Mycroft raised his hips and moaned, wanting harder friction.

"Sherlock." Mycroft was so aroused that Gregory's voice could barely be heard above the blood rushing through his ears. "There's a bottle of lube in that drawer. You're going to help me open up his arse for a good pounding."


	9. Chapter 9

_Oh, my God._

For one brief, tense moment, Mycroft didn't think Sherlock would do it. The nipple play they'd indulged in downstairs was not unprecedented: the summer that he turned six, Sherlock had delighted in catching Mycroft shirtless and giving him painful 'tit twists'. Even the spanking was nothing new- after their father died and their mother became too overwhelmed to handle her wild younger son, Mycroft had administered well-deserved punishment to Sherlock… whenever he could catch him.

There was no precedent for the slick, cool fingers that suddenly slid between his cheeks and probed carefully at his entrance.

Mycroft knew that both of them were watching him closely, ready to stop the scene if they detected discomfort or anxiety. To his surprise, he felt none. _Let go. Ordinary boundaries don't exist here. All that matters is whether it feels good. And God, it does._

Sherlock pushed in with one finger, withdrawing to insert more lube when he detected tightness or friction. He pumped the finger straight in and out, finding Mycroft's prostate on the first go. The elder Holmes groaned and tilted his hips, wordlessly pleading for more.

"You look fucking hot," Gregory groaned. "Both of you. Tell him what he needs to do, Myc, to make you feel good. He's here to learn."

Mycroft could find no fault, and said so. "He's doing just fine. Perfect, in fact."

He sensed rather than saw his brother's smile.

Sherlock now had three fingers buried in him to the knuckle, each slow and patient inward thrust giving his prostate the absolute maximum pleasure. The muscle stretch was slightly painful, though: when Mycroft winced but refused to complain, Gregory climbed onto the bed and offered him a favorite distraction: his cock.

"Oh, Greg," he moaned before leaning forward and running his tongue along the underside of Greg's shaft. He closed his warm, wet lips around the salty head in a reverent kiss, savoring the taste. While Sherlock carried on with opening him up for this very treasure, Mycroft took it deeper into his mouth until his nose touched pubic hair and Gregory's balls tapped his chin. Relaxing his throat muscles, he bobbed his head with the quick yet smooth motion that drove Lestrade crazy.

Gloved fingers buried themselves in his hair. "Fuck… incredible… but slower, love, or you'll have me off before I can take your beautiful arse."

"I think he's ready," Sherlock said.

Lestrade carefully drew his shaft out of Mycroft's mouth and removed his trousers. Mycroft sighed in anticipation as Gregory pulled him onto his left side and spooned up behind him.

"Raise your right leg a bit, Myc," he said throatily. When Mycroft obeyed, Lestrade took the lube bottle from Sherlock, thoroughly slicked himself up, and began pushing his cock between Mycroft's cheeks. As he felt it slide into his body, the elder Holmes cried out and clenched his fists.

"Easy, easy. You OK?" Lestrade stopped immediately and caressed his hip.

"Yes, yes." Mycroft licked his lips and took deep, ragged breaths. "So intense. Feels marvelous. Keep going."

Gregory pressed inward until his prick was completely buried in Mycroft's still-tight passage. Despite Sherlock's careful preparation and the shag session with Irene downstairs, Mycroft experienced a stretch and burn that made him feel full and warm and sweetly violated. He trembled and his sphincter clenched, drawing an ecstatic moan from Lestrade.

"Tight. God, you're so tight."

He reached down and gave Mycroft's rigid cock a few slow, sensual tugs. Mycroft arched into the touch, feeling himself relax enough to let Lestrade wriggle his hips experimentally. The hard shaft buried inside him brushed over his prostate, nearly sending him off the mattress. Only his bound wrists and Gregory's firm embrace kept him in place.

"Now! Fuck me now!" he begged.

Lestrade wrapped his arms around Mycroft's chest and began riding him hard. Mycroft pushed his hips backwards and whimpered, both demanding and begging for deeper penetration at the same time. Gregory kissed and bit at the flesh below his collar and whispered, "Want more, Myc? Tell me what it is you want."

"You. Faster. Harder!"

Lestrade rolled them both over and got up on his knees, pulling Mycroft up on all fours. Gripping hard enough to leave future bruises, he pounded into his lover, ramming his stiff length repeatedly into that impossibly tight hole. Each inward thrust nearly sent Mycroft flying against the headboard.

"Ugh! God, Greg! So good!"

"You love cock, don't you? You love being stuffed with it until you can't feel anything else."

"Yes! Yes."

Lestrade paused and leaned over Mycroft's sweaty back until his lips were only inches from his ear.

"Think this tight and greedy hole could take your brother and I at the same time?"


	10. Chapter 10

**Warning for Holmescest and double-penetration. Thanks to IBegToDreamAndDiffer , KayLeFay, and tmmdeathwishraven for your reviews! Deklava**

* * *

><p>When Mycroft nodded, exhilarated, he was untied, grabbed by two sets of eager hands, and re-positioned so quickly that vertigo nearly knocked him to the mattress. Now Lestrade was lying on his back, feeding his cock back into Mycroft's clenching passage while Sherlock held his brother steady.<p>

"Mmmm. Oh, God." Mycroft shuddered as Gregory rotated his hips carefully, catching his prostate with each upward nudge. He felt sticky fluid ooze out of his cock onto Lestrade's soft middle.

"You're beautiful, Myc. Totally wanton."

Mycroft was about to return the compliment –somehow (is it appropriate to call a Dom wanton?)- when Sherlock touched him between the shoulder blades and leaned him forward until his chest pressed against Lestrade's.

"Be careful, Sherlock," he pleaded softly.

"I've done this before. Don't fuss."

"Hey." Gregory tried to sound severe, and failed. "He can fuss all he likes."

Mycroft smiled and brushed his lips against his lover's. "It might be easier on all of us if I don't. I'll just try to- aaah!"

A generously lubed fingertip suddenly traced his already-stretched sphincter before pushing gently inside, pressing against Lestrade's cock. Breathing deeply and willing himself to relax, Mycroft buried his face in the crook of Gregory's neck and closed his eyes, wanting to focus fully on this new sensation, this new experience. It didn't hurt, but there was an intense pressure that kept it from being pleasurable… yet.

Sherlock carefully slid in a second finger and began scissoring, the slick digits caressing both his brother's shivering walls and Lestrade's erection. Both men fell silent, concentrating on the sensations that assailed them individually.

Mycroft was impressed by how slow and gentle his brother was being. Memories flashed through his head of Sherlock tearing through things like a human whirlwind: Christmas presents, evidence packages stolen from the morgue, other peoples' mail. When the imagery made him unconsciously tense up, Sherlock whispered, "I'm not going to damage you too, Mycroft. Relax."

Suddenly the fingers disappeared and slick hands grasped his hips, raising his arse a little higher. Gregory didn't complain about slipping out a couple of inches, but he did wrap his powerful arms around Mycroft and hold his upper body firmly in place. "Love you, Myc."

Mycroft was about to reply, but the slow, deliberate push of Sherlock's erection into his already-stuffed hole froze the breath in his throat. He gulped air like a beached fish and choked, "Christ, so full. Hurts a little."

Sherlock paused and ran a smooth palm over his lower back, waiting for the go-ahead to continue. Gregory lowered one hand from his shoulder to his still-hard cock and fisted it slowly, sensually. Mycroft groaned and rutted into the clenched fist, feeling pleasure muffle the now-distant ache in his arse.

"Ohhhh. Continue."

Sherlock slid into him by slow and careful increments until he felt his younger brother's balls tapping against his. Mycroft exhaled in light, whimpering gasps and went completely still, letting his body adjust to the dual invasion. Sherlock shifted his knees, which flanked Lestrade's thighs, and swore under his breath, while Gregory hissed, released his cock, and dug his fingers into Mycroft's hips. He knew how hot and wet and impossibly tight he must feel to both their cocks.

"Nobody move just yet," he begged. "Don't worry, I'm okay. Greg… talk."

Lestrade's eyes snapped open. His pupils were dark pools of lust. He grasped Mycroft's face and said hoarsely, "Such a cock slut, love. Aren't you?"

"Yes… yes!" Mycroft loved it whenever Gregory let loose with a stream of dirty words and hot accusations. His arousal skyrocketed and the ache subsided slightly.

"Look at you- two stiff cocks in your arse. Want a third one for your talented mouth? All I'd have to do is shout and there'd be enough horny blokes in here to satisfy an insatiable slut like you."

Mycroft flushed, shuddering as a pleasurable heat consumed his entire body. "You're always enough to satisfy me, Greg."

"Mmm, I love flattery." Lestrade's hand wandered down to his arse and dealt it a sharp crack. All three of them moaned when the vibrations from the blow made their hyper-stimulated nerves ring.

Mycroft pushed himself up onto his elbows, biting his lip as he felt them shift and roll inside him. "Oh, fuck… okay, okay, I'm ready."

Lestrade grabbed him by the hair and drew him into a kiss that was all tongue and spit and hot, excited breath. At the same time, Gregory pushed upward with his hips. Sherlock swore softly as the shift in position made Mycroft squeeze around both cocks, and began carefully thrusting.

"We're both going to come inside you," Lestrade panted against Mycroft's lips. "And then maybe I'll plug you so that you stay open and ready for another go in the morning."

Mycroft whimpered. He tried to remember the last time he'd felt everything so keenly during sex. The way they thrust and rolled against each other in his passage was so intense that he wondered if he'd actually lose consciousness.

"Greg… Sherlock… so much, so much!"

But not too much.

He could feel their erections quivering, and knew from their quickening movements and increasingly irregular breathing that they were about to come.

"Touch me!" he begged, wanting to join them. "I'm almost there!"

Sherlock's sweaty fingers wrapped around his cock and stroked, using his thumb to spread the pre-come across the sticky and sensitive head. Mycroft thrust into it, eyes rolling back into his head as he rocked frantically between his brother's hand and both their cocks. Lestrade claimed his mouth again, biting his lip while applying just the right amount of pressure to his nipples. The bedsprings creaked in protest as their fucking intensified.

Mycroft screamed as orgasm ripped through him. He arched his back, unable to refrain from ecstatic sobs as he spurted all over Gregory's front and the expensive duvet. He was dimly aware of Sherlock and Lestrade grunting and pushing one more time into his twitching channel before thick and sticky warmth flooded him.

For a moment Mycroft felt like he was floating. Then a hormonal afterglow washed over his tired, sated body, temporarily holding the aches and pains at bay. Gregory cuddled him and stroked his hair as Sherlock pulled carefully out, leaving a trail of cum and lube in his wake.

"All right, Myc?" Lestrade murmured.

Mycroft nodded and closed his eyes. He knew he'd be hurting when full sensibility returned, but right now all he felt were strong arms and moist kisses and Sherlock's long fingers caressing his hip.

Then weariness set in and he knew nothing further.


	11. Chapter 11

When Mycroft awoke, all the lights were off and the fire cast a flickering bronze glow over the room. His arse and body ached, but as he recalled the activities that left him in that state, he smiled wearily and decided that it had all been worth it.

Sherlock and Gregory were lying on either side of him, awake and watching. When he rolled carefully onto his back and gazed from one to the other, Gregory's fingers stroked his damp hair from his forehead and Sherlock sighed with relief.

"Welcome back, Mycroft," he said.

"What? You thought you'd killed me?" Mycroft squeezed his buttocks together experimentally and exclaimed, "Ow!"

"You did pass out, love," Lestrade said.

"You should feel flattered then. I've never fainted during sex before."

For awhile the only sound in the room was generated by the logs crackling in the fireplace. Mycroft stared into the dancing flames, mentally cataloguing the night's adventures and relishing the feel of the two people he loved the most cuddling him. Despite the aches and pains, he felt calm, secure, and safe.

Finally he said, "This place is… unreal."

It was the only description that seemed to fit. Within these stone walls, the impossible had happened: he'd yielded control of his mind and body to others, and he and Sherlock finally… was 'reconciled' the proper term? He seemed to be at a loss for words tonight. Possibly because the right one to describe where they were and what they'd done did not exist.

"Yes, New Roissy is a transformative place," Lestrade agreed. He pulled his left hand out from under the blankets and held it up so that the firelight danced off his society ring. "It means a lot that you came here with me, Myc."

"I will, anytime."

"I know. That's why I got you a present, and put it on you while you were asleep."

"What?" Mycroft was so surprised that Sherlock laughed.

"Look on your right hand," the younger Holmes chuckled.

Mycroft did. There, on his right pinky finger, was a New Roissy ring. "Oh! Oh, God, Greg…."

Lestrade took his upraised hand and pressed it to his lips. "Further proof that I love you, and want you to be mine. Will you wear it?"

Mycroft held it close to his face. At first glance it was identical to his lover's, but a closer inspection showed that the riding crop and bullwhip in the insignia were pointed downward, not up. He understood that the design marked him as someone's sub. _Gregory__'__s_ sub. And there was nothing else he'd rather be.

"You know I will, Greg. I love you. And thank you for this."

Sherlock smiled. "I'm getting one too, because Lestrade's sponsoring me for membership. I've not been bored once since I've been here."

"Won't John be curious when he sees it?"

"Probably. And when he is, time to plan a weekend getaway." He reclined against the pillows, hands tucked behind his head and a contemplative expression on his face.

Mycroft left him to it. He rolled onto his side and snuggled against Lestrade. The fingers on his right hand and Gregory's left interlaced, pressing their rings together and using steel and flesh to promise each other nothing less than forever.

END


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